The Slink

Copyright 2021 Jim Crary

        Neighbors though we be my fellow Americans there is a class of people who do not belong on jury duty.  The run of the mill in life gets ground up with people who have the confoundedest impressions of goings on.   The worst of them call their sneaking and thieving vigilantism.  Their deathbed confessions are meant to be public but end up the highest State Secrets.  Perception may have a few shortcuts in analysis but even the luckiest at multiple choice learn the hard truth about not doing homework.  People who believe too firmly they can trust their guess at what is going on become a mob scene extolling the crank as central figure of merit.

        Too many political fortunes have turned on what was done to me not to warrant a higher evidentiary standard than little Robert Fripp’s claim to  supernatural sixth sense.   That one sinister gyrationist whose smug and self-regarding life of indolence, indulgence, isolation and gluttony, a minked soul of lewd fascist revenge practices, cosmic with loud sound abuses should unman an entire generation so simply that it is disallowed to be perceived, smacks the devil of humane honesty, decency and sincerity in the eye.  How is it possible that a woman as touching and generous as deaf Jeannie was transformed into an object for absorption of mental shock relief by plastic reality rape theory for the deranged?   This nut poisoned the whole globe while trumpeting a bizarre crossword puzzle as golden enlightenment, petty, small, selfish, inane and deadly as a Bayer gas. Certainly, he did not do this alone.  He was just one of the most rapacious.   

         To disentangle the crossword puzzle of the slink’s intricate mind it helps to identify partners, clients and powerful overlords grinning and lending bedazzle.  Roddenberry is a good example.  His planet society media espionage overlaps with Attenborough in common cause that Wm. Shatner’s trip to outerspace today illustrates isn’t exactly the same notion of their fellow traveller Greta Thunberg, a giddy daughter of the planning committee struggling with a prisoners dilemma.  Like Trump’s cameo mesmer in the movie Network, Planet Earth by Roddenberry came out with the Burstyn script of Wattenmaker and the Israeli fief holding all real estate in Pittsburgh, John Shulman style, of which I am a precocious study of their company butchcraft, had good money on the Electric Eel Show.

          Roddenberry likes doubling things.   Twains play compartment in the droll stories of the Euro-takeover.   Marina and Lee, John and Yoko, it’s important.  On me, chosen to be the whiner of Truman’s true manhood, they impinged an epic set to the tune of Roddenberry’s double titled:  Mother Enemy / the Lieutenant.  My mother knew.  She watched to make sure I didn’t catch on. Roddenberry’s techniques yield much insight.  The hand behind Greta, my admiration for whom is well-known, is a form of Euro-cognito seeking to deride The American Century vision as too good for America.  In squashing America Trump and his council of dictators simply said I will take that for your betters, little cheese.  Trump and his partners in the Black Panthers and NAACP who mongered death pussyball and various ideas about Supernatural Ventriloquism clocked to murder by gangs summoned with the help of Tulsi Gabbard and Jay Inslee, have epi-eugenic statements in my facial nerve injury, Greta’s Asperger’s and Malala’s mildly disfigured welcome recovery, which doesn’t mean that the Islamofascists are out in the cold with these girls entirely.  Chief Longlist Cudda, Paul McCartney still have a lot riding on the Beatles sale of Les to Beata, Greta’s sister.

           Les, you may remember, is Les Paul’s link to John Shulman and the impinged epic we see.  To boldly go where no man has gone before obsessed Jimmy Qwee, heh heh, so the Kasper Spirit stepped out into the big Ezell painting in easel of the sky with Dweezils.

        And so on.

        Covid 19, from the spirit Koan Teen, was clocked to my falling one class shy of a Bachelor’s degree which in puppetball pussy masters wargame connotes a no no of round two, a double feature fantasy that is disallowed by Pentagon Allah-Disney.

        Apple, the company, riffs on mouth poison that came with Saoirse’s death, by constant reassertions of the past, the staging ground of martial society against reproductive freedom.  The science society harassment is grim.  Greta a virtual conjuring of look what you cudda some more. They freeload trigger nostra to the incandescent yammers of those who impinged Chris Tucci and Carl Boyd (Jay Inslee and Donald Trump), while Nate watched the crib purchase for the gang licky chops.

         Seattle Clubhouse is essentially a statement by Gen. Patton about Dr. King from the British murderers, we’ve heard it before, save it for your head and check out peaceful like.  It isn’t a recovery program at least so far as their intentions concerning me, it’s a Venus Fly Trap from Jim Jones.  

Here is my letter to the Mayor of Seattle, Jennifer Durkan, suspect in suppression of Carmen Colucci’s deathbed confession.  His name was Randy. He asked politely.  I said no.  Politely wasn’t repeated:

      It is intolerable to me to be part of the Clubhouse Movement in Seattle.  Peter Anderson, for one example, ignores me when I talk. I consider this presumption.  The only reason I didn’t get a Bachelor’s degree while in Honors is that Covid-19 curtailed my initiative one class shy.  The damage that Seattle’s Clubhouse Movement did to me is irreversible.  How am I supposed to trust your lunches, your coffee, after Sound Mental Health poisoned me deliberately in the mouth and you have never sanctioned them?   

       You might wonder why didn’t I sue them.  Lawyers for the deaf are a contradiction in terms.  Laws are written by those who hear for those who hear.  The violence directed at me by Seattle alone is a criminally insane deterrent.  Seattle pathological types think they have a rationale.  Larry Crist, a poet from Real Change Newspaper, used to gloat, “you need me more than I need you.”  This is Seattle’s slogan towards me.

        Seattle’s rationale is clubby.  Once, when I worked as a library clerk, a member of the distinguished race, ever above reproach, started hollering that I was ignoring the black man.  No one could shut him up.  After it was over someone explained to me that he was trying to get my attention and never was convinced of my deafness.  On another occasion an odious gangster drove recklessly at Kelly Elementary School and I, a furious, furious passenger, got blamed as the driver.  This is a Seattle type rational, free smacks.  Neither case had the slightest basis in the truth but nothing matters less.

        What Seattle are doing amounts to a contract killing and everyone knows who they are doing it for.  A deaf person isn’t isolated and abused viciously for 30 years without rumor attaching to the proceedings.  It has nothing to do with valuing me.  The brilliants of Dialectical UW put poison in my food because they had stuck with a tune they were calling a food fight. Spiteful minds like Geo. Takei and Aaron Dixon dreamed this business up and are simply denying their party’s past of criminal acts towards me.  The framework is clear:  to ratchet up a ransom, hope it collapses into a bankroll and claim it as yours, a snuff film venture.

         My Civil Rights are being violated by your failure and refusal to protect me from evil.

         I believe we are still fighting World War Two and losing.  Geo. Takei starred in one of the weirdest movies ever made, John Wayne’s Green Berets, which opened with a U.S. Marine singing in German, made 50 years ago, and we are still telling grown men to grow up.  We allow foreign tyrants in fossil fuel and British rock music, calling themselves, fascist invisible men, by the name of the walrus, to subordinate our schools and future to their hoodwinking.  Did I say allow it?  We demand it, rather than face the reality that AIDS and Covid-19 were advertised by the mouth poison.  It is their bridge and their vector.  Suicide bombers have led the entire troupe as Gospel.  I watched this nightmare unfold.  I warned and testified to no tomorrow and to no avail.  Seattle are sick and obsessed with Yoko Ono, saying poison him, poison him, poison him.

          It’s a laugh.  What is there to defend of a society that considers such bad blood social work?

James M. Crary / Mac Crary